Flight Number One

 

 

                         Trapped in my seat

                         behind a buckled belt

                         the dark man’s breath

                         chills my neck

                         he smells of garlic and hatred

                         I have a bomb here

                         a nasty little bomb

                         to kill all the lovely children

                         because I hate you he says

 

 

                         The lights go on

                         would you like some orange juice

                         our hostess smiles

                         the warm comfort of statistics

                         great god of numbers

                         sheds His grace

                         everything is all right

                         for now

 

 

 

 

                                                      Jack Mashman

                                                      1989